


Communication

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5902099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam hasn’t been coming to bed until late into the night, and when reader goes to find out what he’s been up to, she’s surprised to find him practicing American Sign Language.   She agrees to let him teach her, but she couldn’t have predicted where it would lead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communication

**Author's Note:**

> Although you don’t have to go back and read the series to enjoy this fic, you will note this is, in fact, Boyfriend!Sam.

            It has been five days since Sam took the bullet for you.  It has been five days since the two of you had your first real fight. 

            You and Sam were rushing through a haunted suburban McMansion searching for a teenaged boy, the last family member reportedly inside, while Dean dug through storage bins and trash bags in the basement, looking for the hidden, murdered remains of whatever poor asshole this poltergeist came from.  In other words, it was a routine salt and burn. The telekinetic activity had become pretty intense - flying furniture, shattering glass, sparking electronics - and when you found the kid, he was cowering on the upstairs bathroom floor with a handgun cocked and pointed between two extremely shaky hands. 

               The kid, scared shitless, didn’t even look at you when you opened the bathroom door.  He hid his eyes against one arm, screamed, “Leave me alone!” and started to squeeze the trigger.

               Immediately, Sam barked, “No!” and yanked you out of the doorway.

               The gun went off, Sam caught the bullet just below his left shoulder (a bullet which went, as you’d predicted, quite wild and would have barely grazed you if you'd stayed still) and then, moments later, you heard a final cacophonous crash as all the flying debris dropped to the ground, followed by a heavy silence that fell over the house. Dean had taken care of the poltergeist.

               Since Castiel was in the wind these days, you had no choice but to bring Sam to a nearby emergency room.  As you sat next to him on a stiff plastic chair, filling out his forms with forged insurance information and waiting for the nurse to call him in, you couldn't help yourself from chewing him out for needlessly stepping in front of the gun.  Sam, clutching a bloody hand towel to his arm and occasionally wincing in pain, refused to acknowledge that there was anything wrong with putting himself between you and a threat, “Because I love you, and I can.”  This attitude extended, apparently, to even mild threats that you were perfectly capable of managing on your own.  The fact that he ended up hurt far worse than you would have been was irrelevant, and he made no promise that it wouldn't happen again.  At an impasse, you testily agreed to disagree, and then, after the doctor on call pulled out the bullet and stitched up the wound, you didn’t speak a word to each other for the entire six-hour ride home.

              That was five days ago. 

               Since then, you and Sam have been civil, but keeping mostly to yourselves - a first for you, since you moved into the bunker for real. You’re not still angry, exactly, but there’s a sense of eggshells underfoot as you wait for hurt feelings to heal and for things to get back to normal.  Tonight is the fifth night in a row that you’ve rolled over in bed to find you're still alone at 2:00am, and you decide you’ve had about enough of it.   You throw on a pair of sweatpants and squint at the light in the hallway, first poking your head into the empty kitchen before finding Sam hunched next to a lamp in the library, his face pale in the glow of his laptop. 

               You pause to watch him, and you see he's clumsily repeating hand motions, moving as best he can with his left arm still bound in a sling.  After a minute he senses you there, and he smiles gently in greeting as you pad over to him.

                 “Hey," he says softly. "Don’t tell me my clicking is keeping you awake.”

               You shake your head. “Just wondering where you were,” you answer, as he turns back to his laptop screen and you lay your hands across his good shoulder. “Thought I’d try to convince you to come to bed. What’s this?” you ask, glancing at the screen and seeing pictures of hands in a number of configurations.

                “American Sign Language,” Sam says. “I used to study it in college, but I've forgotten most of what I learned. I thought it was time I brushed up again.”

               “You're telling me you've been staying up late every night learning sign language?” you ask, incredulous.

               He looks up at you and nods innocently.  You start to giggle.

                “What's funny?” he says.

                “Well, I was prepared for it to be porn or something, but I was not expecting this."

               He chuckles. “It’s a good skill to have,” he says, then his eyes light up with a thought. “Do you want to learn it with me?" he asks. "We could use it to communicate silently without having to text each other.  That might come in handy on a hunt.”

               You pull up a nearby chair and sit down next to him, propping your feet up on the table and crossing them at the ankles. “Sure,” you say, and he grins.  “Teach me.”

               Olive branch extended, he rubs your thigh affectionately with his free hand, then pulls up the sign for “yes” on his laptop screen.  He curls his fingers around yours as you giggle and try to get the sign right, before moving on to "no" and "go" and "stay back" and "listen." By morning, you're both hopelessly sleepy, but the bullet and the fight are entirely forgotten.

* * * * *

               The first time Sam speaks to you in ASL outside the hunt, it’s at a diner five miles out of Lincoln, Nebraska, your last stop on the way home.  It’s been a long few weeks of travel on a rough case, a lot of nights falling bruised and exhausted into shitty beds at ungodly hours of night, and, consequently, it’s been entirely too long since you and Sam made love.  

               You slide onto the vinyl bench seat at the highway-side diner, nothing on your mind aside from coffee and your own bed.  Sam thumps down next to you, slinging his arm absently around your shoulders, quiet. Dean sprawls in the bench across from you, tired, but starting to perk up as he opens the menu and peruses his thousandth identical description of a two-egg, bacon, and hash brown breakfast.

               Your own nose is pointed at the menu as well, spread open on the table in front of you, flipped to the page with “Lighter Choices” emblazoned across the top. You scan it skeptically, and you’ve about made up your mind that a toasted BLT and fries sounds a lot more appetizing than a fruit and cottage cheese plate when Sam waves his hand under your eyes, immediately grabbing your attention.

               When you look up at him, he glances briefly at Dean, then back to you when he finds his brother still absorbed in the menu.  _Meet me at the restrooms_ , he signs, cocking his eyebrows and giving you a little grin when he’s finished.  He gets up from the table, mumbling something about being right back. You quickly shake off your sleepiness, wondering what Sam has in mind.

               Dean glances over at you, oblivious, and you smile and get up off the bench.  “Order me some coffee, would you?” you say, “I’ve gotta hit the ladies’ room.”

               “Don’t be too long,” he says, turning back to the menu.  “They stop serving breakfast in ten minutes.”

               The diner’s half-full of truckers and salesmen, and as you walk across to the little hallway at the back of the restaurant with the sign reading “Restrooms” hung above it, you ignore a couple of leers shot your way.  You don’t see Sam until he’s rushing out of the doorway marked, “Men” and sweeping you up in his arms, taking you into the empty women’s restroom.  He pushes you against the wall, his hips thrust forward into your belly, his lips catching yours in a slow but forceful kiss.  He pulls his lips away for a moment, and then he takes another pass, only this time he’s plying for entry with his tongue. 

               You both stand panting for a moment when he breaks off the kiss, his forehead pressed against yours.  “It’s been too long,” he grunts, and you nod in quick agreement, and you realize you can feel your pulse throbbing between your legs.

               “You want to go for a quickie?” you ask, grinning mischievously.

               Sam chuckles.  “God, yes,” he says, and he gives a quick push with his hips, letting you feel for yourself that he’s telling the truth. “But I want to fuck you slowly in our bedroom even more,” he adds, backing off a little, arms still blocking you in against the wall.  “I can wait a little longer.”

                “Then what are we doing in the bathroom?” you ask, not entirely sure you feel inclined to show the same restraint.

               “I just wanted to give you something to think about,” he says with a smile, mouth moving in within kissing distance, and stopping just shy.  You feel the near-magnetic pull of the almost-kiss, and then he pulls away again.

               You shudder a little, and he removes his arms, leaving you leaning against the cold tile wall as he adjusts his clothes and walks away, throwing a cheeky grin over his shoulder on the way out.  You stay put a few minutes longer, catching your breath and cleaning yourself up, before joining the boys back out at the table and doing your best to pretend that your loins are not on fire for the remainder of the day.

               Late that night at home, Sam proves to be worth the wait.  After that, it becomes a game to him, and he silently torments you every chance he gets.

* * * * *

               Sam’s been at it about two weeks when Dean starts to catch on.  The three of you are sitting and watching a hockey game in one half of two adjoining motel rooms in Spokane, Washington, just finishing up your fast-food supper.  The werewolf hunt has been a bust, and if nothing comes to light after a few more hours of canvassing in the morning, you’ll pack up your gear and start the drive home.  Sam crumples up his sandwich wrapper and throws it into the wastebasket across the room.  He catches your eyes after the toss lands home, and he’s got that playful, devious look on his face. 

               You glance quickly over at Dean, seated at the edge of the bed while you and Sam sit opposite each other at the room's tiny table, and he seems absorbed in his Styrofoam carton of French fries and the instant replay being discussed on the crappy tube-style TV.  You look back at Sam, who’s sporting a bit of a shit-eating grin, and he signs, _Ever fucked in a motel shower?_ Your face immediately flushes, and he chuckles a little to himself.

               “All right, one of you better tell me what the hell you guys are saying,” Dean says irritably, startling you. “You’re talking in front of me like I’m not here.”  He looks at you expectantly.

                “It’s nothing you want to hear, Dean,” you say, and he rolls his eyes and turns to look at Sam.

               “Unless you want to hear me tell her I love her ten times a day,” Sam adds, with an impressively straight face.  Dean looks at you both dubiously, but doesn’t pursue it.

               “Whatever,” he says.  “Cut it out.  It’s annoying.”

                Dean turns back to his food, and Sam flashes you a wicked smile.  It’s another two periods of hockey before the broadcast is finished, and Dean finally gets up to go to bed.

               Sam’s out of his chair the instant the door clicks shut behind his brother, shedding his flannel and the t-shirt underneath like a candy wrapper as he strides across the room and into the clean little bathroom adjacent.  “Coming?” he shouts back at you, and you can hear the grin in his voice, and then you hear the shower start to run.  “Pressure’s pretty good,” he adds.

               You hop up off the bed and pull your own shirt up over your head, feeling giddy.  You unzip your jeans and let them work their way down your legs as you stumble toward the bathroom after him.  You stop in your tracks, though, when you reach the doorway and look up at Sam, standing naked and erect beneath the steaming showerhead, his eyes clenched closed and his fingers running through his dripping hair. You stare until he opens his eyes and smiles at you.  “Hurry up,” he says. “This is letting the cold air in.”

               You step out of your jeans and hurry out of your panties and bra, letting them fall to the white linoleum floor as you rush to join Sam in the shower.  As you step over the lip of the tub, he closes the curtain behind you, and then he weaves his fingers into the hair at the back of your head, pulling you in for a warm-water-wet kiss.  As you open your lips to let your tongues swirl together, he takes the hand not holding your head and gently presses two fingers up into your pussy, all but blocking the showerhead’s spray with his big, enveloping frame.

               “Have you been wet like this all night?” he asks, breaking away from your lips to trail wet kisses beneath your jaw, the fingers plunged inside you moving achingly slowly.   “The whole time Dean was here?” he adds, his teeth closing gently on the shell of your ear.

               You moan, goose bumps breaking out along your arms, and Sam turns you to lean against the fiberglass wall of the shower.  He ducks his head to take one of your nipples, already rigid, into his mouth.  The warm spray of the shower rushes over you as he traps your nipple gently between his teeth, and he starts fingering you harder, faster.  You moan again, louder this time, more urgently, and Sam lifts his head to kiss you.  “So hot,” he says with a little smile, and then he moves his hand out of your hair and presses his hand against the centre of your collarbone, keeping you still against the wall.                

               He says, “Are you gonna come for me?” and then his fingers are moving fast and hard in your pussy, and the heel of his hand is pushing into your clit, and you think _yeah, I probably am_ , but all that comes out of your mouth is noise, high pitched and obscene, while he brings you to orgasm the quick and brutal way.  He sinks his teeth in your shoulder, and that’s the thing that tips you over.   You shout as you start contracting, and he works his fingers into you like a piston, and your juices run down your legs, mingled with the shower’s spray.  When you start to come down from it, he pulls out his fingers, and wraps both arms around you, and covers your mouth with a torrent of kisses.  His cock, still upright and straining, slides between your wet bellies, and he moans against your lips.

               “Lean back,” you murmur between kisses, "it's your turn," and when he lets go of you and presses his back against the wall, you use his legs to steady you as you get down onto your knees.  He grins, and lets his head fall back, and his cock twitches in anticipation before you so much as brush your lips across the tip.  Then you catch his head your mouth, and it's wet and salty and satiny-smooth against your tongue, and his happy, breathy groan is the stuff your dirtiest dreams are made of.

               His hands come up to rest in your hair as you take him deeper into your mouth and let your tongue swirl languidly around his length. The water is pleasant, and the view looking up is exquisite, and you feel no compulsion to hurry.  His lips loosen in a flurry of praises as you work, and that's your favourite thing of all, the whisper of words he doesn't even know he's saying because your tongue is teasing him senseless. 

               The words stop when he gets close, replaced by gasps and grunts and fingertips that want to grab your head and push, but don't, at least until he pleads, "I'm gonna come," and you don't stop him.  Then he does grab you, holding your head still by fistfuls of hair as he thrusts forward, coming hard at the back of your throat, cutting off your air and pulsing against your tongue.  When he lets go and lifts you to your feet, you're both panting to catch your breath.

               You stay another twenty minutes, lazily kissing and lathering each other up, until the hot water finally gives out and you run giggling, wrinkly-fingered, and content, to the motel's queen-sized bed.

* * * * *

               After Dean’s little fit in Spokane, Sam lays off the signing for a while.  That is, until one evening a couple of weeks later,  when the three of you are sitting and reading quietly in the bunker’s library, searching for some kind of spell or concoction that will rid a local elementary school of an infestation of homicidal-urge-producing parasites. You're bored and in no great hurry; the building has been evacuated with minimal casualties, and the “exterminators” have locked down and tented the place, with signage cautioning passers-by that it contains a lethally poisonous pesticide.  The problem is contained, if not resolved.  At any rate, you’re coming up blank, and when you look up from your crypto-entomology text to stretch out your neck, you see that Sam's eyes are on you instead of the hand-calligraphed spell books laid out in front of him. 

               His face lights up with that familiar, mischievous expression, and, ignoring the cautionary look you’re shooting him, and the fact that Dean is sitting maybe three feet away, he signs, _I’m going to take you right here on this table._ Your breath catches in your throat and you start to sputter, covering with a cough as best you can.  Dean snaps his laptop shut and sighs, looking exasperated.

               Dean gets up quickly from his seat and tucks his computer under his arm.  “Think I’m gonna hit the sack,” he says piquedly, and as he walks past you toward the hallway to the bedrooms, you can swear you hear him muttering, “. . . just fucking polished it  . . .” before he disappears. 

               “Sam, did you hear that?” you say in a hush when Dean is out of view. 

                “He said he’s going to bed,” Sam answers with a shrug, getting up from where he’s sitting and moving closer to you.  You frown, not reassured, but before you can say anything else, Sam comes up behind you and presses his chest against your back, and slides his hands up into the front of your shirt, and you're sure you had a reason this was supposed to be a bad idea, but you'll be damned if you can remember what it was.  Then his fingers are at your nipples, and you can feel his cock hardening against the curve of your ass, and you forget that you had any objection at all.

               "I missed that," he says, lifting your shirt off over your head and kicking the chairs on either side of you out of the way.

               "What?" you ask, breathless, as he unclasps your bra and you let it drop on the table in front of you.

               "Seeing you squirm," he says, twisting the button on your jeans open and pulling the zipper down.  "Watching your face when I know you're thinking about me fucking you." He shoves your jeans and panties down as far as your knees, and then his fingers are between your legs, finding your clit, pressing.  "Knowing how wet you are, when there's nothing you can do about it."

               You answer him in whimpers as you arch and push back against him.  He presses you forward with one hand in the middle of your back, until you’re bent in half over the table, sending a few papers flying.  Then the fingers at your clit disappear, and you hear Sam's zipper open, and you shiver a little, both at the chill of the wood beneath your breasts, and in anticipation.

               He doesn't keep you waiting long.  You feel the head of his cock as he lines it up with your opening, and then he pushes inside you with a groan.  "Fast or slow, baby?" he murmurs in your ear, when he's fully seated and his body is folded over yours. 

               Your pussy clenches for second, and he grunts and twitches in response, and you pretend to deliberate before you answer, a little shyly, "Fast."

               "You got it," he says, and he pauses to suck what you're sure will be a substantial hickey into your neck. Then he straightens up, and rears back his hips, and slams back into you, powerfully enough to shake the table.

               "Fuck!" you shout, and he shushes you, chuckling, but he doesn't let up. He grabs your hips and fucks you, hard and fast as promised, grinding you against the table until first you're up on your tiptoes, and then your feet leave the ground altogether. It's overload, and it's bliss, and when you come, you're so helpless to stop yourself screaming that Sam ends up clamping his hand over your mouth to muffle you.  He leaves it there until his own orgasm passes, holding you still while he gasps and stutters and twitches inside you.

               He laughs when he surveys the damage - papers everywhere, books knocked on the floor, a lamp standing precariously at the edge of the table. He promises to get up early and put it all to rights, opting tonight to carry you to bed and let you fall asleep in his arms.

* * * * *

               Early the next morning, you and Dean are sitting huddled over mugs of fresh coffee at the kitchen table, still half-asleep, when Sam bustles into the room in his running shoes and sweat suit.  He flashes you a grin, then goes over to the sink to mix up a protein shake before heading out on a run, having long given up trying to convince you to join him.

               Dean's pre-coffee ill humour is in particularly fine form today, and he barely looks up from his newspaper when Sam comes over to give you a quick peck on his way out.  "Shooting range in an hour?" Sam asks you, pausing in the kitchen doorway.

               You nod, but your eyelids are feeling especially heavy, and you think to yourself that you're probably going to crawl back into bed, instead.  Then Sam is quirking an eyebrow at you, and he quickly signs, _If you're good, I'll use you for target practice_ , grinning wickedly at the scandalized surprise that plays across your face before disappearing down the hallway.

               Dean, who has been silent until now, clears his throat pointedly.  "Are you sure he's got the stamina for all that?" he says conversationally, eyes fixed on his newspaper. "You know he's not as young as he used to be."

               You blink blankly for a few seconds, a whole new shade of embarrassment colouring your cheeks as you contemplate how long he's been understanding ASL. Dean glances at you sidelong, and smirks to himself at your discomfort.  He’s too smug to stand, and, with nothing left to hide, you decide to fight back.  "You jealous, Dean?" you ask, doing your best to sound more unruffled than you feel.

               He laughs, eyes brightening with delight.  "Ohh, sweetheart," he says, picking up his mug and getting up from the table, about to get on with his day. He pauses to lean down, and he’s right in your face when he says, "Don't tempt me.” His grin takes on a precarious edge as he holds your gaze a fraction of a second too long, then he winks and turns to leave, chuckling to himself. 

               You sit at the table a good while longer, speechless.


End file.
